


she's the sunset (in the west)

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff, Romance, Single Parent AU, but you're getting it anyway, its gay, no one asked for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: Yaz didn't exactly expect to come out of parents evening with a big fat crush on one of her student's mum.(teacher/single parent thasmin au)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am AWARE no one asked for this, but y'all getting it. hope u enjoy yaz being the softest primary school teacher in the world xx

**she’s the sunset (in the west)**

Her last meeting of the night is at six fifty and Yaz has never felt so exhausted in her life.

It’s not the kids. She deals with them day in day out and yeah, it’s tiring, but it’s _nothing_ compared to the tirade of questions from irate parents she’s had thrown at her since four pm. Many of them seemed annoyed at their kid’s reading ability—or lack thereof—which would be a problem if they weren’t _four_ or _five years old_ and, naturally, _Harry Potter_ is still going to be a bit ambitious for a boy who can barely hold a pencil. She’s been through piles and piles of identical maths problems with erratic results, handwriting exercises varying from just about legible to dancing scribbles in HB. The art, on the other hand, is a lot more fun talk about. She tried _so hard_ to hide her giggles when showing a bemused mother her daughter’s drawing of a dog poo she’d seen in the playground.

But right now, all Yaz wants is to lock her classroom door, make her way to her car and have the longest and hottest bath of her life. Ideally with a pizza and half a bottle of white. It’s been that sort of day.

But there’s still one more agonising ten minute appointment to go. Fortunately it’s with one of her… _less behaviourally challenging_ pupils, a little girl called Poppy, with an August birthday that pits her at the younger end of the class. Despite her age, there’s no unintelligible scrawls in Poppy’s exercise books—she’s smart, one hell of a reading ability, but very quiet. Yaz has seen her stalking across the grassy edge of the playground at break and sat alone at lunch, usually armed with a dog-eared picture book about space.

It’s not Poppy’s behaviour Yaz is slightly concerned about. It just can’t be good, or healthy, for a little four year old girl to have not made any friendships in the month she’s been at the school. She’d really like to talk about it with Poppy’s parents, but the clock on the wall above the door ticks on and there’s no-one to be seen.

Six fifty-six.

Six fifty-seven.

At six fifty-eight, Yaz sighs and starts to pack up her things, because sometimes parents forget appointments or can’t get away from work or life happens. At six fifty-nine, she’s about to leave, when—

The classroom door flies open and a woman walks in gripping Poppy’s hand, flustered and panting like she’s just run across the playground. She looks up, blowing a strand of blonde hair that’s blown into her eye-line away from her face. Two vivid green eyes blink back at her—Yaz hasn’t seen anything like them, and maybe it’s the sappy part of her left over from her literature degree, but it’s the kind of gaze that horny Renaissance poets write sonnets about.

(It’s pathetic, but it would be a lie to say that she doesn’t end up writing one herself a little bit later down the line. Oh, well. It’s called being ridiculously in love.)

“Sorry,” the woman breathes in a Northern accent almost as strong as hers, “I’m late. Am I late?”

“You are late,” Poppy says decidedly, identical eyes staring sagely, “Can I please go sit in the reading corner, Miss Khan?”

The reading corner is a pile of cushions and beanbags in an abandoned alcove of the classroom, now covered with posters of _The Gruffalo_ and animals that begin with every letter of the alphabet. Poppy has her space book tucked under her left arm, as well as a little stuffed dog.

“Of course you may, Poppy,” Yaz says, smiling, dropping her bag onto the ground by her chair. “Me and your mummy are just going to have a short chat about how you’re doing at school.”

Poppy nods, and the woman presses a kiss on the top of her head as she rushes away, little shoes tapping noisily on the carpeted floor. The woman turns, smiling apologetically.

“I’m so sorry. I do try, really, but sometimes it’s like the world is working against me to purposely make me late.” Yaz notices the small array of earring glinting on her ear, the smart grey coat she wears on top of some cuffed mom jeans and a long sleeved shirt. She leans across the desk, shaking Yaz’s hand. “I work up at the university, you see, and the traffic is an absolute nightmare if you… sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I? Already taken up enough of your time, I expect. It’s Miss Khan, right?”

She talks at a hundred miles an hour, waving her hands occasionally, and there’s something oddly compelling about it. It really doesn’t take much to warm to her—or to notice the contrast between her and her daughter. “Yasmin. And you would be Mrs Smith?”

“Miss,” the woman hastily corrects, but then smiles awkwardly, scratching her head. There’s an absence of a wedding ring, which isn’t so unusual, but there’s a pain in her grimace that she doesn’t see in so many divorced parents. Rather the widowed ones. “Technically, it’s _Doctor,_ but I really can’t stand titles, sounds a bit pretentious. Joanna is fine.”

 _Doctor Joanna Smith._ Yaz smiles inwardly, and wonders if it’s totally inappropriate to have a little bit of a crush on one of her student’s parents, because there’s just something about this beautiful and chaotic woman in five minutes that is impossible to put her finger on.

“Okay, let’s talk about Poppy, shall we?” Yaz says, fanning out Poppy’s collection of exercise books onto the table. There are no full-sized seats in the room other than her own, so Joanna is perched on a red plastic one, face comically just above being in line with the desk itself. It doesn’t seem to bother her. “She’s a lovely little girl. Very, very smart for her age—her reading is on par with someone at least three years older and her maths is coming along really well. I’m worried she’ll overtake me!”

Joanna laughs a little, but she’s busy scanning rows of handwriting and felt-tip illustrations, fingertips skimming a picture of roughly drawn little dog. It’s the same one she has clutched in her hands in the reading corner, grey with a red collar.

“Here,” Yaz says, turning the book slightly to an assignment labelled _My Family,_ “We asked all the kids to talk about who they live with, what they do, and so on. She clearly looks up to you a lot.”

It’s heart-warming, really, and Yaz almost teared up sat at home marking it. _My mummy is very clever and kind and when we hug we go to the moon. Mummy says I am a star but I think she is a star too and one day we will go to space together_

There’s no mention of a daddy, or anyone else, and maybe that’s what makes this task so bittersweet sometimes. Reading about the kids who aren’t like the other kids.

Joanna’s eyes glaze over for a second and she looks over to the reading corner, where Poppy is lying on her back with her book held at arms’ length. Her hands clasp together. “What she like with the other kids? She never talks about anyone at home, really, and she always struggled with making friends at nursery. By that I mean she didn’t have any.”

Yaz softens because she can see concern in her eyes and a sort of muted desperation and hope that she’ll say something that contradicts her thoughts. But lying doesn’t help anybody in situations like these. “She is very quiet and that does often mean she’s by herself, yes.”

Joanna bites the inside of her cheek. “You should see her at home. Can barely get her to shut up most of the time, always banging on about penguins or black holes or…well, she talks about you quite a lot.”

“Me?”

“Oh, yeah,” Joanna nods, “Ever since you read _Alice in Wonderland_ she’s made me read it to her every chance she gets, but apparently I _don’t do the voices like Miss Khan does._ ”

Yaz remembers reading a bit of the story just the other week with all twenty-nine kids sat on the carpet eagerly, rolling with laughter every time she changed from high to low pitch when voicing the Hare and the Hatter. Poppy had sat silently at the back, expression unwavering—yet the whole time she was taking it in, making a bigger impact than Yaz anticipated.

“There’s a fine art to the voices in _Alice,_ ” Yaz replies, Joanna grinning, “You clearly just haven’t mastered it yet.”

“I have a PhD in astrophysics but satisfactorily reading a children’s book to a four year old’s standard is where I fall short, yeah?”

Yaz leans forward, rests her chin in her hand. Hopes she’s been subtle but doubts she actually is, but that is usually the way. She wants to keep talking about Poppy but she also wants to talk about her, what she sees when she looks up at the sky and what it means. Her job at the university. The silvery light of a full moon and the pull it has on the tides.

“I’m sure you’ll get there. It just takes practice.”

“Yeah. That’s a good motto for parenting, actually.” She pauses, looking down at her hands. Her nails are painted navy blue and chipped at the corners. “I just—like, I worry about her, a lot. We lost her dad a couple of years ago and most of the time, it’s just me and her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Yaz sympathises—there it is, there it is.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Joanna insists, “Long time ago. I don’t think she remembers him. And I don’t have any family, not anymore, just a few friends who are basically family, but… she needs _more_ than that. I’m not worried about her schoolwork at all. I just want her to be able to talk and play with people her own age rather than me all the time. As much as I’d like to build dens twenty-four seven. Who wouldn’t?”

“You shouldn’t worry. It’s only the first month of term, after all. Kids move at different paces, and it’s just taking Poppy a little longer to settle in.” Yaz smiles comfortingly. “If you like, I’ll keep a closer eye on her. See if I can encourage her to be more involved with some of the children.”

Joanna’s demeanour brightens a little, hands loosening apart. “That would be great, thanks. Sometimes all she needs is a bit of a prod in the right direction.”

At that moment Poppy stalks over to the desk, toy dog straying behind her, book still clutched tight to her chest. She looks at her mother expectantly.

“What is it, baby?” Joanna asks softly, stroking Poppy’s blonde hair gently. “You tired?”

She shakes her head decisively. “Can I show Miss Khan the picture in my book?”

Yaz grins brightly, leaning across the desk. “You know, Poppy, I absolutely love pictures. And I think I’d love to see the one in your book.”

Poppy looks shyly over at Joanna before opening it to the back cover, where a biro illustration of a strange blue box stands majestically amongst the index. Joanna pulls her onto her knee so she can point to it better and Yaz looks intrigued, curious to know what it means.

“This is my time machine. Mummy drew it for me,” Poppy explains carefully, “And we’re going to travel back to the dinosaurs so I can ride on the back of a diplodocus.”

“A diplodocus?” Yaz raises a questioning eyebrow, as it’s a big word for such a little girl, and Joanna masks her giggle by kissing the back of her head. “That does sound like fun.”

“Mummy tells lots of fun stories. I especially like the one about the lizard and her wife and their pet potato.” Joanna does another terrible attempt of hiding her laugh and Yaz finds it ridiculously endearing, especially the way her nose scrunches as she grins. “If you like mummy could put you into one of her stories.”

The thought of being in this woman’s head after she’s left the classroom behind is too good an offer to refuse. They share a look, barely a second—but surely, surely, it’s not just _her_ that feels something?

“I think I’d like that a lot,” Yaz says.

When they shake hands as Joanna and Poppy are about to leave, her hand lingers a little longer than before. Her skin is soft but flecked with black pen, a small silver ring indented with a moon on her index finger. When they break apart, Yaz longs for a reconnect. This cannot be the last time they meet. It cannot be the only time. It _cannot._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wow i did not expect this much feedback for this silly little au so i had to write another chapter. hope u enjoy xx

Yaz doesn’t make promises lightly. It’s one of her _things._ A promise should be taken seriously, carried out. If she’s promised to bake a cake for the school summer fair even though she can’t bake for _shit,_ she’s still going to do it, layering the burnt bits in slightly sloppy buttercream. If she’s promised to take her parents to the airport at 3am on a school day, she’ll set an alarm and turn up to work the next morning on with a coffee stapled to her hands.

If she’s promised to find Poppy Smith some friends, she’s one hundred percent going to do that too. She remembers the warmth in Joanna’s eyes at the thought of it—this feels important, like she could actually change something. It might not work. It might be that in less than a year’s time Poppy will move up into year one and nothing will have changed, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t _try._

She brainstorms ideas at her tiny kitchen table as soon as she comes through the door. Ryan’s not home yet so she violently clatters all his dirty crockery into the empty sink, dragging her flipchart paper down the stairs (which she saves only for special occasions). An hour later, her whole kitchen wall is covered in bright pink post-it notes, like she’s attempting some spontaneous redecorating.

“What the—“

Yaz almost jumps out of her skin, black marker sliding out of her fingers and onto the floor. She’d been so absorbed in her new project she’d never heard the front door creak open—and that’s quite a feat considering Ryan’s just come in from football practice, the studs of his boots usually clicking on the laminate like a herd of women in stiletto heels.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she exclaims, heartrate slowly easing back to normal. Ryan rolls his eyes.

“I literally didn’t, but okay,” he huffs, refusing to look away from the chaos she’s created. He squints as he expertly manoeuvres his dirty kit from his bag to the washing machine—if _only_ he could do that with the socks he leaves stranded in the hallway, she muses. “What the fuck is _duck-duck-goose?_ ”

“You’ve never heard of _duck-duck-goose_?” Yaz asks, open mouthed. Ryan bemusedly shakes his head. “Did you even go to primary school?”

Ryan shrugs. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Not if I could help it, no. Mum was a pushover but Nan never believed me when I told her I had the Japanese flu or whatever.”

“I bet she didn’t,” Yaz hums, because Grace never took any of Ryan’s shit. Not even at the end.

The two of them stand in silence for a moment, like every time Ryan mentions the lost women of his family. Yaz has never felt the pain he has. She can see it in his eyes, sometimes, how it lingers like fog. Dense and dirty but fading, eventually. Slowly.

But it’s okay, he has her. He’s always got her.

(It makes her think of Joanna Smith, again. About the dad that’s not around.)

Ryan snaps out of wistful reverie first, grabbing a beer out the fridge and snapping the lid on the kitchen table. Yaz throws him a look. He _knows_ she hates that, which is probably why he does it. “What’s all this for anyway? Because if you’ve volunteered to lead another year six team-building weekend I’m going to be seriously questioning your sanity. Especially after last time.”

“ _No,_ ” Yaz tuts, as if she’s going to make that same mistake twice, “There’s this kid in my class who is finding it hard to make friends. I’m trying to…think of something to solve that.”

Ryan takes a long sip of beer, studying more of her responses. “So you think a trip to the aquarium will fix it?”

Yaz shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? Nothing gets five-year-olds talking more than jellyfish. That, and what they’re going to get at the gift shop on the way out.”

“I guess,” Ryan offers, but he doesn’t look too convinced. “Just… some kids don’t want to make friends, Yaz. As long as they don’t seem too unhappy, what’s the harm in it?”

“This kid is _four,_ Ryan. It’s a very important stage in her social growth. If she doesn’t start developing those skills now when she’s little it could be a really big problem later on.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Ryan says, “All I’m saying…this is a lot of effort for just one kid. As far as you’re concerned, as long as they can count to ten and know most of the alphabet you’ve done your job. And don’t, uh, stick their fingers into plug sockets or something.”

Yaz just about resists the temptation to go off on just how wrong that is and just how Ryan could possibly understand anything about her job, how it’s never _just one kid._ Yes, she needs to teach them how to read and write and count. But she also needs to teach teamwork, conflict resolution, gratification. How you can’t hit someone with a building block or steal somebody’s sausage rolls at lunchtime. How you must listen to the people around you and acknowledge that sometimes you can’t win, whether that’s the _star of the week_ accolade or someone’s forgiveness, straightaway. How you must be kind, always, forever.

The day she sees a kid in her class that’s struggling to fit in and she thinks _it’s just one kid_ is the day she’ll walk away from teaching and never look back.

“Are you hungry?” Ryan asks, after a moment, “I haven’t eaten yet. Pizza?”

Yaz’s hand relaxes, flexing from a fist to loose. On an outtake of breath she runs a hand through her hair, before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

“Cool,” Ryan already has his phone out, scrolling through the options on _Dominoes._ “Hey, Yaz, if you went through this much effort for a bloke maybe you’d finally get laid.”

It’s meant as a joke but—ha. Yeah. Maybe.

-x-

As it happens, it doesn’t matter how many neatly written post-it notes and mind maps you make. Children will always be ridiculously unpredictable, like they’re wired completely different to every single other person aged eighteen or over. She tries class games, seating plans, even outdoor learning in the summerhouse on the grassy quad near the upper school playground—but nothing will encourage Poppy Smith to talk to the other children, or the other children to talk to her.

Instead, Poppy becomes incredibly attached to Yaz. And that is really, honestly, the last thing she wanted.

“You know, it’s really sunny outside today, Poppy,” Yaz says, as in a new turn of events, Poppy refuses to follow the other children out onto the playground during lunch break. Instead, the little girl stays in her seat, taking her dark blue starry-patterned pack lunch box out of her draw and unpacking it onto the table. “I think some of the other girls were thinking about playing with the new skipping ropes. Wouldn’t you like to play with the skipping ropes?”

Poppy shakes her head decidedly. Silently, she removes a small peanut-butter and banana sandwich from her box and places it in front of her. Yaz watches as she nibbles round the corners first before eating the filling.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to go outside?” Yaz asks, somewhat weakly, because she has a feeling Poppy won’t give in to her hints easily. “It’s so dark in here and I have to mark your handwriting worksheets!”

“I want to stay with you, Miss Khan.”

When two little eyes blink innocently back at her, Yaz finds it very hard to resist. Technically, as long as she’s not on her own, it’s not breaking any rules. It’s just—this is not in the plan. It’s not _good_ to let a kid become too attached. It goes against every instinct she has as a teacher, but she _knows_ if she forces Poppy outside she’ll go back to silently stalking the edge of the playground with her book about space, lost in a world of her own.

If she’s in here—just for today—at least she’s in her company. Talking to _someone._

“Okay,” Yaz smiles tightly, “As long as you promise to go outside tomorrow, yeah?”

Poppy nods happily and returns to her sandwich.

-x-

Quite by chance, today just so happens to be the day that Joanna is late. As one-by-one the kids spot their parents or guardians in the playground and head off back home, rain splattering off bright red wellies and raincoats, Poppy stands on her tip-toes and peers into the murky outside. The weather has turned somewhat since lunchtime.

Yaz looks at her watch. Quarter to four. The playground is mostly empty, other than a group of mums nattering by the gates, restless kids hanging off their arms or in pushchairs.

It’s the second time she’s been left waiting for Joanna Smith, Yaz ponders, and wonders if it’ll be the last time. She sighs, looking at the back of Poppy’s head, watching as the little girl’s eyes lock on to everything and everyone walking past the school.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon, Poppy,” Yaz says, gently smoothing Poppy’s hair. Poppy looks back up at her, eyes wide and concerned.

“What if she’s gone to the moon without me?” Poppy asks quietly. Yaz shakes her head with a smile, crouching down so their faces are level.

“Your mum wouldn’t do that, I promise,” Yaz says, “She’d always wait for you. I’m sure of that.”

Poppy frowns. “My daddy didn’t.”

Oh. _Oh._ Yaz freezes for a second, like she always does when a kid says something like that. You know—something unbearably sad, something hanging and poignant, one of those things that just slips out because kids don’t hide anything. Kids have sad stories too. They carry tragedies in their reading folders, hidden under exercise books and friendship bracelets and constellations of gold star stickers.

Yaz takes one of Poppy’s tiny hands in her own. Notices the stars she’s etched on her palms in blue biro pen. “Look at me, Poppy. Your mummy isn’t going to leave you behind. Ever.”

(It’s a big, big promise. She doesn’t realise it at the time, but it’s the biggest one she’s ever made—because sometimes, sometimes people don’t come back. Or you don’t go back to _them._ Maybe it’s the first promise she’s made that she won’t be able to keep. Sometime.)

Poppy’s disgruntled expression shifts into a smile, and Yaz can’t help but grin back. When she stands, still clutching onto Poppy’s hand, she can see through the raindrops on the window a shaky, grey figure running towards the door. Against her better judgement, she can feel her heart do something she doesn’t want to put a name to.

The glass door opens and Joanna emerges from the cold, her anorak dripping rain onto the floor in mad, abstract patterns. She pulls down her hood and her blonde hair is a chaotic mess of drenched natural waves—it reminds Yaz of tides and sea-salt and white-sand beaches, somewhere cluttered and rugged like the Northern coast. The kind of water that leaves you freezing but dazzlingly awake, shivering in clean, white towels with piles of seashells in your pockets.

Joanna blinks and catches eyes with Yaz. Grins. “I’m making a habit of this, aren’t I?”

Poppy replies first, dashing towards her mother excitedly. She grabs Joanna’s legs in a hug and Joanna laughs, ruffling her hair.

“Oh, baby, you’ll get all wet,” Joanna murmurs, before clearly deciding that Poppy is going to get wet going outside anyway. She scoops her up into her arms and kisses Poppy’s cheek messily, Poppy’s hands looping round her neck.

“You didn’t go to the moon without me,” Poppy says matter-of-factly.

“Of course I didn’t,” Joanna answers, before looking confusedly back at Yaz, forehead scrunching. “I would never leave you behind. Never ever.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Yaz reassures, “Your mummy was just late, Poppy. Nothing to worry about.”

Joanna grimaces, shifting to bring Poppy further up her hip. “Yeah—I’m so sorry about that, I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yaz responds, smiling comfortingly. Joanna seems to take it, smiling back. “No harm done, eh?”

“No, I suppose not,” Joanna’s eyes seem focussed on Yaz’s face for a second or two, and her heart is doing that thing again, that _ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum_ that she’s only ever really felt when Harry Styles winked at her during a One Direction concert fucking years ago.

(Was it really that long ago, huh? Have men really been that disappointing since?)

“Well,” Joanna says, breaking the silence, “I think you deserve a treat, ay, Pop? Ice cream?”

Poppy looks excited but Yaz laughs, glancing at the deluge outside. “You’ve certainly picked the perfect weather for it.”

“Mummy,” Poppy says pointedly, playing with Joanna’s wet hair, “Can Miss Khan come for ice cream with us?”

“Oh, uh—“ Joanna looks at Yaz expectantly, “I mean, of course she can, if you’re allowed…?”

Yaz pauses, because this is not a situation she’s encountered before, and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do. It’s probably important to keep a professional distance from the kids in her class and their families. She knows she can’t show favouritism, but… this isn’t that, is it? This is just going for ice cream with a woman that she can’t help but want to get to know better. There’s a magnetic quality in Joanna. A one that makes all her wiring stutter and restart.

“You know what,” Yaz answers, after a moment, “That sounds like a lovely idea.”

(Oh, and this is when she discovers that she’ll do anything for a smile from either of the Smith women.)


End file.
